


your teeth are bloody and bone white

by Areiton



Series: Clawthorne Academy [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Boarding School, Disturbing Themes, M/M, Pining, Teacher-Student Relationship, Underage Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 17:42:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12237618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: You don’t let yourself look at him. He’s loud and brilliant and impossible to look away from, but you do.You turn your attention to Jackson and Danny, to quiet shy Isaac and you refuse to see the hurt flicker in whiskey warm eyes.





	your teeth are bloody and bone white

**Author's Note:**

> Full Spoiler-y warnings at the end.

The uniform for the students at Clawthrone Academy was simple and neat. Black pants and a white button down. A black tie. Back shoes. 

Neat. Simple. 

The boy in the back, sitting in the corner was not neat. He was not simple. 

You stared at him, in his sweater the color of blood, the sleeves pushed up to reveal his wrists and forearms, the veins standing out sharply,  with his skinny tie wrapped tight around his throat and hair that begged to be pulled--

You were lost before you even learned his name.

 

* * *

  
  


Clawthorne is a massive estate, sprawling over eighty acres. The main hall is an old stone thing, impressive on the website and in the glossy pictures sent to the parents. The dormitories are old and drafty in the winter, if the stories whispered in the hallways and your classroom are to be believed, but they hold lavish suites for the wealthy boys whose parents cannot be bothered to care for them. There are cabins in the deep woods that surround the main hall and dormitories, that house the staff and groundskeepers, and though you know the others share their cabins and your woods, you’ve never seen them. 

You teach and you return to your small, neat home, and no one ever bothers you there. 

You thought, when you were first approached to teach history to the rich pampered boys, that it was inviting a wolf in among sheep. 

You said yes, and hid your trembling hands.

 

* * *

 

 

He has a wide white smile, red lips that beg to be bitten and you dream about them. 

You don’t let yourself look at him. He’s loud and brilliant and impossible to look away from, but you do. 

You turn your attention to Jackson and Danny, to quiet shy Isaac and you refuse to see the hurt flicker in whiskey warm eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

You watch. 

For as long as you can remember, you’ve watched the world. You don’t like being drawn into it, like to watch the stories playing out and you see things. You see Aiden and Ethan curled like puppies in an empty stall in the barn, Aiden’s hands tight and possessive even in his sleep. 

You see Enis bullying the youngest children on campus. You see Nurse McCall crying in her cabin, the lights behind her illuminating her hair and her expression. 

You watch the older boys playing lacrosse, see Stiles fumbling and clumsy and more amused than disappointed. 

You see the way the others move around him, the way he stand apart, even as he slips into the shallow depths of his peers. Scott is by his side, always, and it irritates you, because he is a brilliant flame and Scott is simple, a banked heat and flares of jealousy. 

Stiles stifles himself, for his friend and your hands itch to remove him from Scott, to place him in a place where he will shine, always.

 

* * *

 

 

You’re in the library, because the weekend will be long and quiet and maybe if you have a book in hand you won’t leave to find  _ him.  _

“Heard you’ve been watching the lacrosse practice.” 

The voice is familiar and you turn to see the smirk you can already hear. 

You aren’t sure if you are more pleased or annoyed to see him, standing there with his wide white smile and his red sweater. His tie is looped around one hand.

“Mr. Stilinski,” you say, coldly. His smile goes wider, and he leans in a little, close enough that you can see the spokes of black in his laughing eyes. 

“Like what you see?” he asks, and you shudder before you step away. 

You hear Scott as you leave and it makes you almost turn back. 

“Dude. Hale  _ hates _ you.”

 

* * *

 

 

She’s got a wicked smile and golden hair and if she is quiet, you can pretend she’s Kate. 

She isn’t quiet, though, and her laughter and innocent delight in cooking and cartoons makes you smile at her, indulgent and warm as she curls in your lap.

She asked, the first time you brought her to your cabin, about the stylized wolves on your hearth. 

You gave her a glass of wine. “It’s part of my family’s crest,” you said, simple and dismissive, and later, after you’ve fucked her in your bed, she traces the wolves on your back, the triskele there. She didn’t joke about them, and you didn’t offer more. 

The second time you brought her to your cabin, she grinned and called you  _ big bad wolf _ and Stiles, unexpectedly with her, watched with narrow eyes. 

The third time. 

Well.

 

* * *

 

 

There’s a man with Stiles, older and worn looking, and you don’t stare at them, but Stiles catches your eye, and his face creases in a grimace. He nods at you and the man turns, sharp blue eyes boring into you. 

“Mr Hale, you haven’t met my dad,” he says, distracted. 

You eye the man you know is called the Sheriff with a begrudging affection. He’s head of security for Clawthorne and the reason Stiles attends. 

He’s also fiercely protective, or so you’ve heard. 

From the way he watches you, with knowing, unhappy eyes, you think it must be true. 

You wonder if there is anything on campus that affects Stiles that he is unaware of. 

“Pleased,” you say, smiling wide and white, and nod at Stiles, standing anxious between you. “He’s a brilliant student.” 

Something softens in the Sheriff’s eyes and Stiles preens, a ridiculous peacock and you want to push him against the wall and kiss that smile off his damn lips. 

Then the Sheriff says, easy and bone chilling. “Do you know the chef, Erica Reyes?” 

Stiles is watching you, watching you, when he adds, “She’s dead. We found her body this morning.”

 

* * *

 

 

It takes time, months of quiet classes and increased security, but eventually, it dies down. The questions slow and stop and the case into Erica Reyes goes cold. 

You wish you were surprised. You aren’t. You knew exactly what you were doing when you chose her. 

Sometimes, you think of her, eyes wide and sightless in the dirty basement of your cabin, her golden hair red with blood. 

Sometimes. When your skin itches and the urge to kill burns in your blood, you think of her and the ones before her, the ones before you came here, and you can push it down, aside. 

Most days, your mind is occupied with Stiles. 

You watch him as a boy--tall and muscular, with dark hair and a shitty attitude--pushes him to his knees in the woods. 

You watch as he fumbles through the blow job, and the way the other boy jerks him off, after, while Stiles makes these wounded little noises and bites at his neck. 

You hate the boy, hate Stiles, hate them both. 

You want to kill them both. 

You want to fuck him even more than you want to watch him bleed. You wish that didn’t terrify you.

 

* * *

 

 

A week later, you hear of the fire in student’s storage. The boy--his name is Theo, you learn--is distraught and furious to discover all of his personal possessions have been destroyed. 

You stare impassively when you hear, making noises of startled surprise and outrage and try not to feel smug. 

You ignore the heavy feeling of Stiles’ watching you.

 

* * *

 

 

“Another body was found in the forest,” Stiles whispers and you lean into the books, intent. 

“Who was it?” Scott sounds shocked and scandalized. 

“Ennis,” Stiles says. “Dude. He had been castrated. His face was  _ gone. _ ” 

There’s something in Stiles’ voice that makes you lift your head and you wish you could see him, see his expression. 

“Anyway--Dad doesn’t want me in the woods alone. So hurry the fuck up with Ally, ok?” 

Scott makes a noise of assent and scurries away, to find the little Argent girl who teaches archery and French.  You look at the book in your hand as Stiles leans into your space. “Hale,” he murmurs, and you feel it ripple across your skin like a caress. 

You stare at him, watch him lick his lips and allow yourself a small smile. “Stilinski.” 

His mouth opens and you lift the book and retreat before you can do something you will regret. 

Later, that sentiment will amuse and frustrate you, as you fuck your hand and picture his wet mouth.

 

* * *

 

 

The door to your office bangs open and Stiles stalks in. He is gorgeous and radiant and  _ furious _ as he throws his bag down and leans over your desk. 

You can see the pulse pounding in his throat and wonder what it would feel like, that frantic and furious, under your tongue. 

“Please, come in, Mr. Stilinski,” you say, dryly. 

“You,” he snarls, “are  _ avoiding  _  me.” 

True. You’ve avoided him like the plague since that day in the library, when he’d watched you with lazy lidded eyes and wet lips and an expectant air. 

Since you killed Enis and the Sheriff’s presence at Clawthorne became heavier, became something you couldn’t ignore.

“I am your teacher, Stiles,” you say, simply, your gaze fixed on the paper you can’t actually read. Not when he is trembling with want and fury, so damn close. 

He makes a wounded noise, and it jerks your gaze up, to his dazed face. It’s the first time you’ve said his name, out loud. 

“You--you,” he stutters and you want to soothe that lost note in his voice, want to catch his wrists in your hand and draw him to you. 

You make your expression cold and remote, and stare at this terrifyingly beautiful boy who could-- _ has-- _ unraveled your whole world. 

“What?” you asks, flatly. 

His expression evens out and a smile you recognize tips his lips up. 

“Nothing, Mr. Hale. Not a damn thing.” 

He doesn’t slam the door behind him. 

Somehow that feels worse.

 

* * *

 

 

You see him again, after that. In class and the halls, where he ignores you with a thoroughness that  _ hurts _ . 

And in the forest, where he fucks boys whose names you don’t learn because if you do you will kill them and lay them at Stiles feet like a bloody bridal gift. 

You listen to him, to the dirty groans in the trees as he fucks those nameless boys and grits out curses and you lean into the trees and jerk off in cold silence, because that’s all you are allowed. 

This is all you are allowed.

 

* * *

 

 

You hear the noises before you see him, but even hearing it, the distinct sound of the knife ripping into flesh, the rasping pained noises of the rabbit--even knowing what you would see, it doesn’t make sense. 

He crouches over the bloody carcass, and you think, absurdly, of that first time you saw him, in his messy beauty in your classroom. His wrists looked delicate then, and they do now, covered in blood, his eyes wide, pupils blown. 

He stares at you as he stands, and his breath is on your lips, he’s so close you can smell the sweat of him, the blood on him and you are so painfully hard. 

“Don’t tell,” he whispers and you stare at him, your heart pounding hard in your chest. 

You want to kiss him and taste the fear in him, want to lick it away as his fingers paint blood into your skin, want to fuck him against the trees while he bites muffled moans against his bloody wrists. 

You  _ want.  _

You step away and he shivers in his blood red sweater. “Come to my cabin, tomorrow,” you say simply, “at eight.”

 

* * *

 

 

It’s strange, seeing him in your space. You remember him here, all those months ago, with Erica, and the way his fingers traced over the wolves on your hearth while she kissed you and called you the big bad wolf. 

You watch him in his crimson sweater and black pants, his white button down and skinny black tie and you think maybe it’s apt. 

Little Red and the big bad wolf. You wonder who tempted who in that story. 

“Where does your father think you are?” you ask, and there’s a tiny hitch in Stiles’ step before he smirks at you. 

“With Boyd,” he says. “Studying.” 

You nod, and extend a hand. Your heart is hammering in your chest but you take him downstairs, into the dirty basement, where Enis’ blood is still dark in the dirt. You think of Erica’s necklace, a tiny crescent moon, in the box pushed against the back wall, with Theo’s birth certificate, stolen from the storage room before you set it to fire. 

You stand on the bottom stair and watch him look around, at the knives and the raccoon in it’s cage, the kittens in their box. 

His gaze, when it comes back to you, his shining and his voice shakes when he says, “You? It was you?”

 

* * *

 

 

He has your life in his hands, every secret and bloody stroke of your knife, his to expose. 

It isn’t as terrifying as you thought it would be. 

You were his, to break or build, to destroy or worship, from that first day you saw him burning bright in your classroom.

 

* * *

 

 

His nails bite into your skin and you bury your groan into his neck as he sinks down on your cock. His body is hot and tight and fucking  _ perfection _ and you want to fuck up into him, want to push him into the bloody leaves and fuck him until he  _ screams _ but you don’t. You hold him by the hips, your fingertips pressing bloody bruises into him and let him set a slow, rolling pace. 

“You saw me,” he murmurs, breathless. “All those boys I brought into the woods. You saw me with them, didn’t you.” 

You snarl and he laughs, gives a dirty roll of his hips that drives all thought out of your head. When he drags your hand to his lips, sucks your bloody fingers into his mouth, you moan desperately, and he hums, pleased. "I wanted you to," he gasps, letting them go with a wet pop, and you smear them across his skin. "Wanted to drive you  _crazy_. Thought about you, every time they touched me."

“ _ Stiles _ ,” you groan, sounding  _ wrecked  _ and he tugs, until you get your shit together and realize what he wants. You roll him, press him into the ground and thrust hard, grinding into him as he arches up with a cry.

“Come on, big bad,” he whispers, pressed into the leaves, blood in his hair. He smiles and his teeth are white and bloody and he is breathtakingly gorgeous, this boy you cannot look away from. “Show me what you’ve got.” 

You do. You fuck him until he is whimpering and coming against you, until you come and fill him up, and it’s everything you want, everything you’ve ached for.

He lies there next to the dog you killed together, lazy and sated, covered in blood and come and your bruises and you kiss the pulse pounding in his throat, and hum as he giggles. 

You’re going to show him  _ everything. _

 

**Author's Note:**

> Serial Killer AU, gore, death, manipulative behavior. Thoughts and idealization of violence. 
> 
> Look, it's a serial killer AU. With all the disturbing shit that goes with. Be safe, lovelies.


End file.
